


We Speak When Spoken To

by SwingBallBlues



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Domestic Violence, Historical Accuracy, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Period-Typical Homophobia, Public Display of Affection, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, i do things my own way i'm not sorry, self-indulgent fic, slight sugar daddy percival, very religious because i have a kink ok
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 13:53:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9551831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwingBallBlues/pseuds/SwingBallBlues
Summary: Credence's old faith fell off, and it looks and feels like he died. A man comes along and brings him back to life.





	

It's summer again. 

Credence feels too big in his three-year-old two-piece Italian suit, the sleeves now too short to kiss his wrists. He's turning twenty four this year and the fitted jacket makes it difficult to stand with his back straight, holding up his posture awkwardly. Though he prefers not to, the hunch of his shoulders is inevitable. He knows Ma doesn't like being reminded of how tall he's gotten anyway. How _strong_.

He only noticed the change of season when the girls started offering more of their sunscreen-protected skin to the insatiable sun, colorful drinks in hand. _Makes Thirst a Joy_ , one of them read. Credence knows little to nothing about advertising, the pamphlets in his hands serving as his vocabulary span of the language, but he sees the appeal in it. How it fiddles with the mind. Ma doesn't allow sugar in the house, but he figures it’s okay to simply _wonder_. Soda Pop is what they call it; Credence imagines the tickle on his lips from the bubbles and the tingle on his teeth from the sweet. He can't help but want to try too.

Gluttony is a sin, but it is hardly that when Credence never indulges himself. 

The blistering dog days of summer is second to his least favorite season. Second because it's hot and dry, second because all he has to do is shuck off his clothes instead of putting more on. Yet when he feels a bead of liquid run down the expanse of his back, he still fears that it's not sweat. Because sometimes, when he opens his eyes, all he sees is red. From his hands, from his spine, from the lids of his eyes. Sometimes when he shuts his eyes it's still red too. And then he would know that it's only Ma, guiding him back to the path of the Lord, segregating him from the foul ways of the wretched world they live in.

But those are Ma's words. He's merely an advocate.

Some other times, all Credence sees is black. Pouring out of him and into him. It feels liberating, letting the monster in him take over. The pain is temporary, once he gives in he couldn't even muster up the energy to care anymore. And then when he wakes up again he'll wish he wouldn't.

One droplet of sweat, two. The task is simple; pass the fliers and spread the words. Pass the fliers, spread the words. Pass the fliers, get pushed down, get spat on. Get back up, spread the words. On and on until he has little control over the movements of his lips and hands, on and on until it's okay to stop. Credence is still mindlessly running his mouth to deaf ears when a man appears before him, seemingly out of nowhere. Naturally, the speech comes to a halt.

"What compelling words you speak there," the man says. Hoarsely, like he's been smoking.

He's tall, dark-eyed, with a touch of silver on the sides of his slicked back hair. He smells of cigarettes and the air around him makes Credence tuck his chin in, averting his gaze to the man's shiny oxfords.

"Only the truth, Sir."

The man lets out a low chuckle, prompting Credence to look up. 

"Are they your own? Do you believe in them?" 

Credence doesn't know if the man is mocking him or not, but he replies with conviction all the same, "I wouldn't preach them if I didn't, Sir."

The man scoffs, eyeing him down and then looking back up at him again. "So that's what you are? A preacher?"

"So that's what I am," Credence finds himself saying. He's never crude but this man doesn't look like he'd give him a good one if he speaks his own mind. A genuine interest. "The ordinances of the Lord are true and righteous altogether, Mister, I'm simply shedding some light on what people have forgotten."

"And that is...?"

Credence silently hands the man a flier from his stack. _Witches Live Among Us!_ it says. Loud and clear.

"Witches," the man cocks one full eyebrow at Credence. Dubious, but not detesting. “Among us.”

"Witches, Sir," Credence nods. It earns him a smile from the man. 

It's a little puzzling, but the hand held out to him is bare of any rings, the nails deftly cut. It's an invitation and Credence takes it, half-anticipating the firm grip meeting him. It's warm and sweaty, and he anticipates that too. 

"Good man,” he calls Credence, but he’s not smiling anymore, only looking at him intently. The young man has no idea what to make of it. Before too long he lets go, leaving Credence with flushed cheeks and a heavy pull in his chest.

Not many people stop to talk to him, let alone make any physical contact, a _harmless_ one, to add to that. The touch had been formal but it was unmistakably kinder than what any of the other passers-by had to offer. Credence doesn't want to push his luck.

 _More_ , the monster in him growls. He ignores it. 

He resumes where he left off, the odd feeling of someone watching him clawing at the back of his neck. It would be another three hours until night falls, four until Credence makes it to bed. Tonight, when he closes his eyes, he sees a figure of a man waiting for him in the dark.

 

+

 

The next day finds Credence in a charcoal grey vest with a white button down underneath. It's decidedly too hot for a jacket so he leaves the house with his hat on, pamphlets in hand.

"Hear, hear!" He cries, waving the papers about. A woman gives him an odd look but takes one pamphlet from him.

"The eyes of the blind shall be opened!"

And like a gentle breeze in early spring, there it is again. Someone is watching him. He can sense it, the urge to turn around and meet those guilty pair of eyes. He's sure of it, the feeling is as real as the solid ground beneath his feet and the sun above his head, but he can't pinpoint where exactly they are, can only let the uneasiness prickle under his skin. He tries to shrug it off.

"Witches—"

And then someone is grabbing him by the shoulder; making him jump back in surprise, gasping loudly. His arm flies out and his elbow hits the stranger's chest with an ' _Oof!_ ' before he can stop it. Realizing what he's done, he scrambles in horror, turning around, ready to beg for mercy. Because no matter how many times it's happened, being hit in the face is not a very enjoyable experience. It leaves a funny taste in his mouth. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, Mister, I didn't mean to— I didn't see you, sorry—"

"It's okay, it's fine, I startled you."

He recognizes the voice. The hand is back on his shoulder.

"I'm awfully sorry," he says again, stepping away from the stranger, attempting a distance between them as a defense mechanism. Apprehension is a virtue, for people like him.

The hand squeezes, keeping him in place. Credence dares a peek from under the brim of his hat and sees the dark-eyed man from the other day, his brows furrowed. 

"You didn't hurt me, it's alright," the man manages a courteous smile.

In the split second of the upturned curve of the man's lips directed at him, Credence hurriedly decides that this man isn't here to cause him pain. A smile and a touch, and a trust is gained.

"I wanted to talk to you," the hand is now tracing down his arm and Credence breathes deeply through his nose to calm himself down. "About your community. Would that be okay?"

Credence nods. "I'll be happy to satisfy your curiosity, Mister."

And then, like a collectively and silently agreed routine settlement, the man extends a hand to Credence's unassuming way. "I'm Percival Graves."

Credence reciprocates, unable to disregard the way his slightly paler and smoother palm cancels out the older man's warm and callused one.

"Credence Barebone, Sir."

"Call me Percival. I insist."

"As you wish," Credence ducks his head, he can only maintain the eye contact for so long. "Percival," the syllables roll off his tongue languidly with a soft sound, and his lips ease into a smile. Percival sees it too.

When he draws his hand back Credence stops himself from trying to linger. 

"Will you walk with me? Please?" 

Credence takes his time to consider it. Ma has ears and eyes throughout the neighborhood, if her disciples see him wandering around with strangers, they would undoubtedly rat him out in a heartbeat for exchange of gentle caresses and empty praises. Because when it comes down to it, all children are the same; they need reassurance. Ma can give them that, and Credence can watch.

"It'll only be a moment, I promise," Percival carries on. He's worrying his bottom lip, a signal so honest Credence's resolve crumbles almost immediately. 

It wouldn't look so shady, though, would it? Besides, this gentleman only wants to know more about the Second Salamers, how could Credence deny a man who simply wants to learn? He has all the information there is to know about their community anyway.

Looking up from under his lashes, Credence nods. "Okay."

"Excellent," Percival smirks triumphantly. He takes the lead and begins setting a moderate pace for them so Credence wouldn't have to jog to catch up. Long, confident strides that Credence doesn't bother matching.

In front of them, an elderly couple amble along, the wife's arm in her husband's. Credence glances up at Percival and wonders if he does the same with his woman, or if he has one at all. 

"There's an ice cream parlor, just about a block away now. They have such wide range of selections. We can talk there," Percival suggests swiftly.

Now that wasn't the deal. It's tempting, Credence has never had ice cream before, but if that changes he knows Ma would find out. She always does.

"I don't think I should," Credence mutters, his eyes downcast. "My mother, she wouldn't like that, I'm not supposed to—"

Percival's shoes click beside him so Credence stops in his tracks. 

"Your mother?" Percival asks, unblinking. "What about her?"

 _Ah, what stupid, timid little boy,_ the voice inside his head says. _Go on, show him how weak you are._

"She— I mean, I really can't," Credence feels jittery, his mouth on a race with his brain. "I'm not allowed—"

He doesn't see it but he feels a hand closing around his neck, fingertips brushing the soft hairs hung neatly at the nape. He didn't realize he was shaking until Percival's steady build is pressed up against his.

"I'm sorry, my boy, I didn't mean to pry," Percival says quietly, his breath tickling Credence's face. "Will you forgive me, Credence?" 

It's too much. The dreamy eyes, the honeyed voice, the tender touch. Of course he will.

"Of course," Credence sighs. Like magic, his entire being unwinds under Percival's words.

"Let me treat you to a sundae, please? As an apology. To help you cool off," Percival smiles, less devious and more frank. "This heat can do heinous things to the body if you're not careful."

Like magic, he surrenders.

The rest of the walk is a close resemblance to walking on clouds; the next thing he knows they're stepping into a spacious room brightly lit by gaslight, the mirrored wall welcoming them and several other patrons.

"I've never been to a place quite like this," Credence confesses, gazing up the gaudy interior. He feels more than a little out of place.

Percival hums, empathetic. "I never liked the brash lights myself," he wrinkles his nose. "Come, let's order something and sit outside where it isn't half nauseating."

Credence lets himself giggle at Percival's blatant aversion. 

Standing before the printed menu on the overhead wall, Credence swallows an invisible lump in his throat. When Percival said the place had wide range of selections, he'd meant it. Credence feels a little dizzy, reading all the funny names and the rather wordy description, unable to peg one fast enough.

"Well, what'll your's be?" Queries the man in the white apron behind the counter.

When Credence looks up sheepishly at Percival for enlightenment, the older man throws him a knowing smile and casually pets his back. 

A Brooklyn Bridge and a stout vanilla soda float is what Percival opted for. The fountain man called him a ' _good sport_ ' but Credence wasn't really sure what he meant by that. They sit outside, where the shop's bonnet roof has a lower slope hanging over the front and sides of the building, providing a free shelter from the sun. 

Now, Credence has never had real ice cream before, never one this big. On an oblong dish in front of him are two scoopfuls of chocolate ice cream, one at each end. Over each cone of ice cream a few chopped pecans are scattered, topped with a little whipped cream, the vacant space between them filled with mint syrup. The two cones are then connected with a half slice of orange. He imagines this spread is meant to represent the real Brooklyn Bridge itself but he can't remember much since he's only passed it once or twice. It costs Percival 15 cents and it looks _incredibly_ good Credence is almost reluctant to eat it.

"You can dig in, now, or else it's going to melt," Percival says, motioning at the dish. He takes a sip of his own drink and then looks away to the busy streets of New York next to them. 

Credence can't help the soft pleased sound that escapes him at the first spoonful. This much sweet shouldn't be good for you, but with the way Percival instantly turns his attention back to him, now smiling, it shouldn't be that bad either. 

"How's that, my boy?" Percival leans back in his chair, watching Credence's expression with entrancing eyes. " _Cushty?_ "

Credence meets his gaze with netted brows and licks his lips clean. "Uh, what was that?"

"Cushty," Percival says with a laugh, "Funny word, I know. It means good."

"Oh," Credence smiles himself and nods. "Yeah, it's cushty. Thank you ever so, Percival, I wouldn't dream of eating something like this on my own."

Percival shakes it off. "Please, it's the least I can do for being such a busybody back then."

"Ah, don't worry, it was just me being silly, really—"

Percival adjusts himself in his chair, leaning in to rest his forearms on their shared table. "I understand."

Credence cringes. "I'm sure you will."

This time, when Percival touches him, Credence doesn't flinch back. "I understand," he says again, softer.

Credence feels a smile forming on his lips at that, and takes it as it is. He continues eating, swirling the cream and syrup with his spoon, watching them mingle together with the nuts until Percival clears his throat.

"So, about your group," he begins, idly playing with his straw, "New Salem Philanthropic Society?"

"Or simply the Second Salemers, that's what people usually call us," Credence clarifies. He munches on another spoonful, savoring the crunchy texture of the pecans.

Percival hums in acknowledgment. "And the leader? I don't want to presume but she's your mother, no?"

Credence would rather not talk about Ma, not now, because then he can see her eyes, gleaming in fury and disgust as she catches him manifesting his selfishness. Running his tongue over his lip, he replies, "Yes, she is."

Percival senses the slight change in Credence's tone, but doesn't address it. "I understand you also hold meetings?" He proceeds. 

"We do, on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Sundays," Credence replies instantly, like the words are etched on the tip of his tongue. "Every week."

"Sunday? That's tomorrow," Percival tilts his head to one side. "Will you be there?"

"I'm always there," Credence says, red leaking into his cheeks. "Will you come, Percival? It's by the church," he risks asking, reckless at it is but he still craves the comfort of a familiar, benevolent face in the crowd one of these days.

"Oh, I've never been a man of god, Credence," Percival admits. "I wasn't brought up that way," he shrugs.

Credence reminds himself not to let the disappointment show in his face when he speaks. "That's alright, maybe some other time."

"I'd love that," Percival says. Sometime during their conversation he'd finished his drink, the empty tall glass now being pushed aside as he leans closer until he's almost sharing the same air as Credence. "Are you going to convert me?"

Credence nearly drops his spoon, the proximity heating up the upper half of his body. He's glad he's sitting down because otherwise he'd barely manage to stay upright. 

"That's— that's not my job," he gulps, "Only the Holy Spirit can do that," he looks away nervously, his face hot.

Credence _does_ drop his spoon when Percival takes his hand and lifts it between them. The loud clanking of the silver against the aluminium is easy for Credence to neglect when Percival guides his hand to his own lips, tracing the remains of the sweet treat along them with a thumb. He can only watch in a dream-like state, bug-eyed, as Percival brings the smeared digit into his mouth and licks it clean. 

"I think you can too," Percival says, placing Credence's hand back on the table. "Are you finished, Credence?"

Credence feels lightheaded, but nods and leaves his seat all the same. 

The walk back to Pike Street is no less brief, with the gears inside Credence's head twisting and turning relentlessly, going over the lewd scene played before his eyes just moments ago again and again. His thumb still throbs from being enveloped by the warmth of Percival's mouth, and it almost kills him how the older is so noncommittal about it.

Only when Percival stops, he does too.

"Here we are," Percival announces. "I'll take that," he reaches out for the fliers in Credence's pocket and takes half of what he has, smiling. "I'll see you around, Credence."

Credence doesn't get to thank him, ask, or even say anything _at all_ because the older is gone by the first blink. His heart is still hammering against his ribcage, and for the first time ever, he doesn't feel empty.

Later that day, when the blinds inside their poorhouse are drawn, Ma approaches him with a glower on her face.

"Where were you, Credence?"

Credence curls into himself, knowing all too well of what's to come. "A gentleman wanted to know more about us so we talked for a little bit."

" _Talked?_ " She raises her voice, and Credence can almost feel the imminent strike of the belt across his back. "I don't think that's all you did, Credence. Why don't you tell me?"

He bows his head lower. "He took me for a sundae, Ma, I didn't want to, at first, I told him—"

"But you still went with him," she hisses. "I don't want you following some strange men like a harlot, Credence. You should be ashamed of what you've done."

"Ma, please—"

And then she's holding out her hand, and Credence knows there's no point in wasting his breath anymore. He takes off his belt obediently, along with his shirt. 

"Why does sin bring more sin, Credence?" Mary Lou asks, and when she's replied with silence, begins belting him.

The first slap of leather against his skin is always the worst. Eyes closed and lip bitten, Credence slips into that one safe place in his mind he always retreats into whenever the pain becomes unbearable. _Lord Jesus,_ he calls, _When will you halt my treacherous and vindictive hand?_

This time he doesn't see a light embracing him, not a voice, nothing. The pain is blooming bright behind his eyelids, gnawing upon his roots, demanding to be felt. One strike and then another, his vision is bleeding red teetering on darkness until he sees a figure of a man.

He's moving towards him.

It's Percival.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ezra once said that he thought credence's favorite treat would probably be "soda pop", so there you go.
> 
> also if you noticed the london spy & the young pope references you earn extra house points ;^) 
> 
> i hope you liked it! there's more coming your way eeee


End file.
